


From Scratch

by thedevilchicken



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Career Ending Injuries, Getting Together, Guilt, M/M, Magic, Moving On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24198694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Tony comes back from the dead, but he can't fix his gauntlet-broken arm. Dr Strange proposes a solution.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	From Scratch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bold_seer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/gifts).



Somehow, in the end, Strange was the only one who got it. And not just because he was the guy that Houdinied him out of the afterlife in the first place. 

When Tony woke up, it took four whole seconds for him to think, "Wow, I can't believe I survived that," and another four for him to realize, "Well, crap, I really _didn't_ survive that." It wasn't just because Pepper was giving him a look like she'd seen a ghost, though she was absolutely doing that - she was white as a sheet and staring, eyes like saucers, like maybe this time really was the weirdest thing she'd ever seen him do. He was pretty sure it wasn't, even if he'd come back from the dead, but who knew: maybe he'd faded back in veins first like some kind of weird-ass anatomy class or maybe it'd involved Stephen Strange jello wrestling Death in an electric blue mankini. 

But it wasn't the look on Pep's face that told him he'd died; it was Morgan. He knew her right away, sure, but she'd grown. She'd _really_ grown. Not like Hulk grown, three times the size of a normal girl and kinda green around the edges, but grown nonetheless. And Tony frowned at her, and he pushed himself up, and he leaned back against the headboard. 

"Hey, kid," he said. "How old are you?"

She smiled. She'd grown up with his smile, he thought, which kinda didn't bode well for the world at large. "I'm twelve," she said, like she knew the question he was really asking: _how long have I been gone?_

Pep had a ring on her finger that wasn't the one he'd given her. His daughter was twelve. And Tony, for the first time in a long time, had no clue what to say. 

It was a month after that until he gave up trying to fix himself. Nothing he did worked; his right arm, _the_ arm, the one with the fingers that snapped and saved the world, was basically just dead weight at his side that he had no idea what to do with. He couldn't move anything below the elbow, no matter what kind of stimulation he applied; sure, he could make the nanites move it, but moving them was for shit. The impulses just weren't getting through, Bruce said - he'd had seven years to study his own little post-gauntlet issues, after all, so there was pretty much no better authority. The Hulk had retired from the whole Avengers bit. Looked like Iron Man wasn't making a comeback, either, at least not past the whole resurrection part.

"Hey, did you ever thank Strange?" Bruce asked, one afternoon when Tony was right about ready to launch the entire lab into the sun. And he paused, in the middle of sweeping all the shit off of his desk, which had the net effect of just knocking his coffee cup onto the floor. The lukewarm liquid pooled around his shoes and he grimaced at them, or maybe just at the question, 'cause no: turned out he really had not thanked Strange. 

So, he thanked Strange. He sent a gift basket, or at least he had F.R.I.D.A.Y. send a gift basket. A nice one. One that absolutely said _thanks for that whole bringing me back from the dead thing_ , not _so why'd you bring me back with one arm, Houdini?_ Rhodey told him it was a shitty idea, and Bruce told him it was a shitty idea, and Morgan told him it was a shitty idea, and mostly he just ignored them until he realized his twelve-year-old was cursing and okay, so he let that one slide, but he totally gave her a really stern look. Then he sent the basket anyway. F.R.I.D.A.Y. sent it. Same difference, really, it's the thought that counts. 

Two days later, Tony walked into the lab and the basket was sitting on his workbench. On the back of the card - okay, so F.R.I. really hadn't done her best work with that - Strange had scrawled: _You're a dick, Stark. Bad news: I can't help with that. Good news: I can help with the other thing._

It was another month before he _really_ gave up trying to fix himself. It was another month after that before he turned the damned card in his remaining good fingers and finally, he thought maybe it was time. 

"Do you know what time it is?" Strange asked, when he opened the door at Bleecker Street. He was barefoot in the hallway and his freaky cloak had wrapped itself around him like a towel so who even knew if he was dressed underneath it, but he stepped aside and let Tony in so he figured he couldn't really be too annoyed. Or maybe he was, but it wasn't like they'd made an appointment. Strange really wasn't that kind of a doctor anymore and Tony had never been great at calling ahead. 

At the dining table, the cloak fluttered away - turned out Strange was shirtless but otherwise decent - and he took a seat. He gestured for Tony to join him there. Reluctantly, he did. 

"So, you're going to heal me, Doc?" he said, maybe kinda sarcastic. 

Strange just gave him an arch look, then he set both his hands on the table, fingertips against the tablecloth. Tony looked at the scars that ran down his fingers and wondered how many surgeries he'd had, but for once he thought better of saying what was in his head out loud. 

"You're going to heal yourself," Strange said. 

"Like you did?" 

Strange pressed his hands flat. He spread his fingers wide. "I use what I learned for something else," he said. "Don't think that means I can't teach you what you need to know." 

"Magic tricks? I'm gonna turn a lampshade into a nice SUV?"

"Maybe. Or maybe something else."

When Tony agreed - what did he have to lose? - Strange smiled. Maybe it wasn't a _nice_ smile, but it seemed to mean something anyhow.

It wasn't easy. It took months, and there were times he really hated it, times when all he wanted was to stay home on the couch and watch a movie, except Morgan kicked him out of the apartment and told him to get his ass to Bleecker Street; turned out she'd gotten his smile but Pepper's sass. And, every day, Strange was waiting. Now, a couple of weeks after his Hogwarts graduation, he thinks he understands why. 

Strange thinks he owes him for the snap that saved the planet. Strange thinks he made him do it with the shit he said about the future - Strange thinks he handed him a loaded gun and watched him pull the trigger. Tony knows in a way he's kinda right 'cause if he'd told him in advance what he'd have to do, he'd've tried to engineer a way around it, change his fate, just like he always does. And maybe that's why he's back at Bleecker Street, ringing the bell to a door that's answered by a floating cloak. He doesn't have to be here and he knows it, but he really kinda does.

"He here?" he asks the cloak, like talking to animated clothing is the most natural thing in the world, and he guesses these days it is. The cloak twitches its collar like maybe that's yes then turns and swoops away; Tony gets the hint, and he follows inside. 

"Hey, Doc," Tony calls, and Strange looks up from the book he's reading. Must be that time of year again 'cause his fingers are curled in toward his palms like the chill in the air's kinda getting to them. Tony doesn't feel much in his own Infinity Stone-fucked arm but he sometimes feels the chill in his chest, where the reactor was.

"Did we have an appointment?" Strange asks, the flippant jackass, but it's been a year and Tony's used to that. Turns out he even kinda likes it.

"You're _a_ doctor, not _my_ doctor," Tony reminds him. "Flappy over here let me in." The cloak obligingly flaps the corners of its hem like it likes its new nickname, or like maybe they just formed some new stand up double act they're gonna take on the road. Strange sighs. He sits back. He rubs his hands, though he really can't do a great job of it. So, Tony makes his way over to the table and he leans against the edge of it, and he scoops one of Strange's scarred hands up into his own good one. He slaps it down on his own thigh and rubs at it, slowly.

"You're not even _a_ doctor," Strange points out. 

"Yeah, even less _your_ doctor," Tony replies. "Which is kinda for the best or I'd be breaking all kinds of rules right now."

When Strange frowns at him like he wants to ask what he means by that, Tony kisses him. It seems like a good idea at the time, and it's not like Strange says no. Strange stands, and he moves in close, and Tony hops up onto the table; when they kiss again, Strange's scarred fingers up in Tony's hair, he's standing between Tony's thighs. It feels like a really long time coming, and he doesn't just mean since he got back; who even knows what Strange did to get him there.

He knows there'll be a whole lot of questions later and Strange has to know that, too. But right now, all that matters is Strange is the one who understands. When they go to bed, it's not even the tenth worst idea Tony's ever had. Between Tony's fucked up arm and Strange's fucked up hands, they make it work; he only needs one hand to jack him off, after all. He only needs one smart mouth to crack him up. And turns out two wizards are better than one.

Strange gets it, 'cause they both know Tony could be Iron Man again in a heartbeat just like Strange could be a surgeon. They'd both do a whole lot of good that way. 

Tony smiles, all teeth, while he wraps his good hand around Strange's dick. Strange rolls his eyes, but that's not _stop_. It's not even close.

They could be the guys they were before and they both know that. But sometimes what the world really needs is magic.


End file.
